


The Music of the Night

by spacebanes



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: 1800s, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Juno Steel is in Love, M/M, but also kinda wack, but with no sexism, for both stories, or homophobia, rita and peter are best friends fight me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebanes/pseuds/spacebanes
Summary: Phantom of the Opera auJuno Steel, a disfigured musical genius hidden away in the Paris Opera House, terrorizes the opera company for the unwitting benefit of a young protege by the name of Peter Nureyev, whom he has trained and fallen in love with. When that love starts to turn into a violent obsession, they both must face the consequences of what their relationship has become.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev & Rita, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue - 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to point out any spelling or grammatical errors that you find so I can fix them

The opera house simultaneously looked exactly the way Rita remembered it and completely different. It wasn’t hard to imagine how the building had fallen into a state of disrepair after so many years, but it was still eerie to see a place she once knew to be so full of colour and life flat like it now was. Part of her didn’t want to believe that she had any good memories attached to the building at all, but she knew that was a lie, and she didn’t like to lie to herself. She’d done far too much of it in her early years to want to fall back into that habit now. The details of the building, from the stage to the seats to the stairs she’d always managed to trip on, though weathered and dusty, were still the same. Looking at them it was almost easy to picture the once vibrant reds and golds, to see the candles that had once rimmed the stage. It was hard to stop every memory she had of the place from rushing back to her at once. 

“Sold. Your number sir?” 

The man, one Rita hadn’t been paying much, if any, attention to, showed the auctioneer his number, and he nodded thankfully. 

“Thank you. Lot six six three, then. Ladies and gentlemen, a poster for this house’s production of Hannibal.” 

“Showing here.” A different man said, letting the poster unfurl in his hands. 

Rita smiled slightly to herself. She remembered Hannibal. Quite well, as far as she was concerned. It had been Peter’s big break, but more than that it had been the show that brought the two of them back together, her first show as patron of the opera house, and the last show before everything started to go wrong. 

“Do I have ten franks?” The auctioneer asked. Nobody said anything, and he let out a small, well hidden sigh. “Five then? Five.” 

Rita tapped her nurse lightly on the hand, and she held up the number. 

“Six. Do I see seven? Seven. Eight?” Rita tapped her hand again. “Eight. Eight once, selling twice, sold to miss Rita, former patron of this very opera house.” 

Rita nodded briefly in acknowledgement, and the auctioneer smiled at her before moving on to the next item. It was one she didn’t particularly care about, though she’d never say that out loud. The show had taken place before she’d even been born, so she had no real reason to care about it. The bidding for the item went on, and slowly, without even thinking about it, she let her eyes wander to box five. It was a place she hadn’t looked in a long, long time, and the weight of all that it represented settled on her chest like an anvil. Her nurse’s hand flexed on her shoulder, and she looked up to see her staring down at her with confused and concerned expression. She had noticed her staring, then. Lot six six four, a wooden pistol and three human skulls, sold for fifteen franks, and as the auctioneer introduced the next item Rita let herself glance back up at the box for one more, brief second. 

“Lot six six five. A paper mache musical box in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals. This item was discovered in the vaults of the theater still in working condition, ladies and gentlemen.” Rita had finished the description of the item in her own mind before the auctioneer had finished describing it, and upon looking at it realized she was right. It was the same one.

“Showing here.” The man holding the music box said, winding it a few times before letting the notes of the song ring out. It still sounded the exact same.

“May I commence at twenty franks?” The auctioneer asked. Rita, still in the process of trying to properly register what she was seeing and hearing, didn’t move. “Oh come come ladies and gentlemen. Fifteen, then?” Rita tapped the nurses hand. “Fifteen, thank you very much. Twenty thank you very much sir.” 

“Twenty five.” A different woman in the group said suddenly. Rita turned to look at her for a moment and frowned. That wouldn’t do at all. She tapped the nurses hand.

“Thank you madame. Thirty? Thirty. Selling at thirty franks then. Thirty once, thirty twice,” The woman shook her head, and the auctioneer struck his gavel on the stand. “Sold for thirty franks to miss Rita. Thank you very much ma’am.”

The assistant, the one in charge of displaying the items, brought the box over to Rita and held it out in front of her. She took it gently, placing it in her lap and running her fingers over the lid carefully. 

“A collectors piece indeed.” She murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Every detail of it looked exactly the same as he had said it did. It was something he spoke of often, though Rita had never been certain why it stuck out so much to him. The velvet lining felt as though it were new, hardly a scratch on the figurine sat atop it and the music still just as clear as it would have been had the box been built only days before. It was a miracle that it still worked, let alone looked as pristine as it did. This box had outlived at least one of them now, though Rita could easily say it had likely outlived two. Part of her wondered if, long after they were all dead and gone, the box would still play, the gold metal of the cymbals shining like new. 

“Lot six six six, then. Chandelier in pieces,” Rita sat up completely straight, causing the nurse to shift anxiously behind her. She couldn’t particularly find it in her to care. “Some of you may recall the strange affair of the phantom of the opera.”

The statement was so absurd Rita could have laughed had she been less likely to enter an unending coughing fit from it. Of course she still remembered the phantom of the opera. Everyone did, the story a whispered tale backstage at shows and by children on the streets. Over time the story became faded and twisted, much like any story did, but Rita never forgot any of it. She didn’t think she ever could, no matter how badly she wanted to. 

The auctioneer, clearly oblivious to how close to home the piece he was speaking about was hitting for certain members of the crowd, continued. “We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the same chandelier that figures in that famous disaster. Our workshops have restored it, and fitted parts of it with wiring for the new electric light so that we may get a hint of how it may look when reassembled.” 

A hushed, intrigued whisper fell over the crowd. Many of them, most likely all of them really, had only heard stories about the chandelier incident, about the phantom himself. It was likely they were all too young to remember it clearly, or perhaps they hadn’t been in Paris at the time, but whatever the reason, none of them knew, not as well as Rita. If they knew they wouldn’t be intrigued, not like they were.

“Perhaps we may even frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen!” 

At the auctioneers words a large curtain that had been covering something that was now clearly the shape of a chandelier lifted, sparks flitting down from some of the newly installed lights as they flickered on. The chandelier, despite how old and broken down it was, looked exactly the same once it had been lit up, and just like that the events all came flooding back to the front of her mind in waves like she hadn’t spent every day of her life since trying to forget it, like it hadn’t been over twenty years since the entire story took place.

The story of the phantom of the opera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uhh I'm hyperfixating on the phantom of the opera right now which is a very strange thing to fixate on I know, but I decided to use this opportunity to turn it into a fic! This is gonna follow the general events and plot of the phantom of the opera, but some things will be different as some of it just doesn't make sense with the penumbra characters, so even if you've seen phantom and know how it goes you should hopefully still find this relatively interesting :)
> 
> Also I'm following the songs for chapter lengths so sorry this one is so disgustingly short I promise the next one will be better
> 
> Comments fuel my will to live so please leave me some


	2. Think Of Me - 1870

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to point out any spelling or grammatical errors that you find so I can fix them

Peter was, in a word, tired. In many words, he was tired of listening to Nova sing, of listening to himself sing, of dancing, of watching Julian argue with Alessandra every time he messed up a line, which was happening far more frequently than anyone would like. His feet and his throat hurt and he was on the verge of becoming miserable, though he wasn’t looking to express that to anyone. Madame Mercury was right there, after all, and as much as she cared individually about all of those in her ballet she was not willing to put up with complaining, and he knew she’d be all too willing to sideline him for the rest of the performances should he show any hint that he wasn’t at his absolute best, and that was something he certainly didn’t need. His tutor would be very displeased with him if that were to happen. 

“Julian, we say Rome! Rome, not Roma! Do it again.” Alessandra barked from the pit. Julian looked as though he was going to roll his eyes or perhaps say something snarky in response, but thought better of it at the look she gave him. 

The band started again, and Julian went through his lines, making sure to put extra emphasis on Rome every time it was said just to annoy Alessandra. He was on thin ice with her, constantly testing her patience and kindness in rehearsal, and if he wasn’t one of the strongest talents they had Peter was sure he would have been tossed to the side by now. They’d repeated this part at least four times now, and Peter was debating sending the medical bill for all the damage this was likely going to do to his back directly to Julian. Bending over so much for such an extended period of time couldn’t be good for someone, even a trained ballet dancer. He could feel his joints complain as he danced, but he didn’t let it show on his face. He knew better than to do that. 

"As you can see rehearsals are currently underway for a new production of Hannibal." 

Against his better judgement Peter looked up at that and watched as Sasha Wire, the owner of the opera house, pushed her way through the crowd of actors on stage. There were three other people he didn't recognize following along behind her, and he couldn't help but notice how strange of a trio they made. The first, a man, was tall and broad, his hair graying in some spots in a way that still managed to look attractive. The suit he was wearing looked expensive, but not in a way that made it look as though he was trying to show off. Besides him was a woman with bright red hair, brighter than any he'd seen prior, that fell down over one of her eyes. Contrary to her large friend, she looked as though she'd picked the dress she was wearing purely to show off, and it was certainly earning her a hair amount of attention from the cast. The third was another woman who stuck close to the other's side, her hair cropped short in a way that wasn't common for women but still managed to look quite beautiful. She scowled distastefully as she looked around the room. 

"Madame Wire I am rehearsing!" Alessandra snapped. Peter felt quite bad for her. She was under more stress than she had any right to be, and nobody was making it easy for her. 

“Alessandra, Madame Mercury,” Sasha smiled apologetically at the two of them. “If i could just have everyone's attention for a brief moment.” 

Mick crossed from the other side of the stage to come stand beside Peter, and if his mother noticed she didn’t say anything. It was clear to Peter that she did, in fact, notice, the cutting look she shot the two of them a clear indication of that, but Mick seemed to be oblivious to that. Peter couldn’t fault him, he was oblivious to most things, after all. 

“Do you think this is about the retirement rumors?” Mick asked, leaning closer to Peter so he could whisper instead of drawing more attention to them. Peter simply shrugged, not quite sure what to say to him. 

“Now, as I’m sure you’ve all heard there have been rumors for the past few weeks about my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that those are all true.” Sasha explained, and Mick pumped his fist in excitement. 

Peter owed him ten franks for that, and he was rather annoyed about it. He couldn’t feel too bad about taking bets in regards to Sasha’s retirement, not when everyone had been doing it, but he had been so sure he was right. She was far too young to be retiring. Her parents had owned the opera house before her, and when they died she’d inherited it. She was in her early thirties, which was far from retiring age, and he had been so sure that the rumors were all false. It didn’t quite make sense to him that someone her age and in her position would be retiring, so he had bet against the possibility, while the other end of the spectrum was headed by Mick, who claimed he knew Sasha better than anyone. The two of them had been childhood friends, so looking back Peter assumed he should have listened to him. He was quite put out about the loss of the bet, if not because he did quite like Sasha then because he was genuinely looking forward to those ten franks. 

“I knew it.” Nova whispered, doing a rather poor job of actually being quiet, and Peter watched as Julian sighed and not so discreetly slipped her some money. 

“It is now my pleasure to introduce you to the two people who now own the opera house. Monsieur Jet Sikuliaq, and Madame Buddy Aurinko, as well as her wife Vespa.” She swept her hand in the direction of the three strangers that had followed her in, who each gave a small acknowledgement when their name was said. Buddy and Jet were both surveying the room with easy smiles on their faces, clearly pleased with their investment, while Vespa continued to scowl beside them, Buddy’s arm looped through hers where it hadn’t been before. There was a small wave of applause for the two of them, and they both smiled politely in response. 

“Thank you, Madame.” Buddy said kindly, giving Sasha a warm smile. 

Nova stepped away from the small circle of others she’d accumulated and moved over to the four of them, holding her hand out towards Jet. “Nova Zolotovna, leading soprano for eleven seasons.” 

Jet shook her hand, and Buddy took it and placed a kiss on the back once he had let go. Vespa’s scowl deepened. “We’ve experienced all of your greatest roles, darling.”

“And senior Julian Dimaggio.” Sasha said, gesturing forward Julian, who kissed the back of both Buddy and Jet’s hands. Vespa didn’t offer her hand to either of them, so neither attempted to take it. 

“It’s an honor.” Jet nodded. 

“And it is our even greater honor to introduce you all to our new patron, madame Rita.” Buddy announced. 

Yet another new person stepped through the crowd of actors, but this time they had a face that Peter recognized. He sucked in a sharp breath and reached over to grab hold of Mick’s arm, hanging onto him like he was a lifeline. Part of him worried he might leave bruises from how tightly his fingers were wound around his wrist, but he couldn’t find it in him to care more than that small, passing thought. Not when Rita was standing right in front of him. 

“It’s Rita.” He said breathlessly, the words quiet enough that nobody but Mick could have picked them up. 

Mick cocked his head, looking at him curiously. “You know her?”

“Before my father died,” Peter nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “We were good friends. The best of friends, as far as I’m concerned. She used to call me little lottie” 

“She’s beautiful.” Mick said simply. Peter laughed and relaxed his grip on his arm slightly. He was right. Rita had indeed grown up to be very pretty, although it hadn’t been hard to assume she would when they were younger. He didn’t give Mick a response, not wanting Mick to take his confirmation to mean romantic interest. That was never what he meant when it came to Rita. As much as he loved her it had never been like that, and he highly doubted it ever would be. 

“Don’t make a fuss, miss Buddy. I don’t wanna keep these folks away from their rehearsal too long.” Rita said. She still sounded the exact same, if only a little older. 

“Senora Zolotovna, if I remember correctly, you have a rather fine aria in act three, don’t you?” Buddy asked.

Nova nodded. “Si.”

She smiled brightly, though Peter couldn’t help but note that it looked a little forced. “If it’s not too much trouble, darling, I was wondering if you might be willing to give us a private rendition? That is, unless, if madame Strong objects.” 

“If my managers command. Madame Strong?” Nova gave Alessandra a flirtatious smile, and she clearly tried to bite back a grimace in response. 

“If my diva commands,” Alessandra sighed deeply, making her way back over to her stand. “Will two bars be sufficient?” 

“That would be quite sufficient, yes.” Jet nodded, folding his hands behind his back and stepping to the side, Buddy and Vespa following along beside him. 

“I hate to miss your performance, senora, but I have to go.” Rita said. She sounded genuinely apologetic, and it was so like the Rita that Peter knew he could have laughed. 

“Will you be at the performance this evening?” Madame Mercury asked. 

Rita smiled brightly at her and nodded. “I’m really excited about it.” 

“As you should be. Come, I’ll see you out,” Sasha said, moving quickly over to Rita before turning to look at Buddy and Jet once more. “Madame, monsieur, good luck. If you need me I shall be in Australia.” 

She nodded at them in acknowledgement before taking Rita’s arm and guiding her towards backstage. She seemed rather eager to leave, and if he was being honest, he couldn’t blame her. Nova did a short warm up, one that Peter was well aware was unnecessary, before smiling at the three of them and shooting a sharp look at Alessandra to tell her to start. Sasha and Rita brushed past Peter and Mick on their way out, and a small, naive part of him wanted her to see him, to recognize him. She didn’t even spare him a glance, already regaling Sasha with a story she no doubt had no interest in and was putting up with for the sake of being nice. Peter tried not to let his disappointment show on his face, but it was clear that he had failed, as Mick gave him a soft, understanding look. 

“She wouldn’t recognize me now.” Peter shrugged, trying his best to fight a smile onto his face. 

The one Mick gave him in return was sympathetic, and Peter let him grab hold of his hand and squeeze. “She didn’t see you.” 

Peter smiled, just a little, and did his best to let himself believe him. Nova cleared her throat loudly, drawing everyone’s attention back to her, and smiled when Buddy and Jet looked at her. Peter braced himself. “Think of me, think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye.” 

Mick winced next to him, and Peter couldn’t fault him for it. Nova was a very talented woman, that was undeniable, but sometimes it felt like she was trying far too hard to sound better than she was. She was showing off, that much was obvious, and it looked as though Buddy and Jet could both tell. They were indulging her at this point, Peter could tell, but Nova didn’t seem to notice. No doubt they’d heard about what a nightmare she could be from Sasha and were trying to get on her good side before she could decide they’d done something to wrong her and grow to hate them. It was a good strategy, Peter would give them that. Nova was rather touchy about certain things, and she changed her mind about people in seconds when she felt like it. Getting on her good side early on was a good idea, and by the look of them Buddy and Jet knew that. It was harder to tell with Vespa, though he supposed she likely felt the same. She looked so permanently annoyed with everything happening around her that he doubted she was even capable of looking as though she was enjoying something. 

Nova sauntered across the stage as she sang, draping her costume scarf over Jet’s shoulder and shooting him a flirtatious wink. Jet didn’t seem to know how he was supposed to feel about that, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion but his face staying otherwise neutral. Buddy disguised a laugh with a cough, but from where he was standing Peter could see her hiding a smile behind her hand. The lack of reaction from him seemed to confuse Nova, which only served to make the situation even more amusing. Peter even thought he almost saw a smile twitch up at the corner of Vespa’s lips, but it was gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure. Mick was trying to stifle a wave of giggles next to him, his shoulder shaking where it was pressed against his, and the rest of the ensemble seemed to be in a similar state. The idea of being laughed at seemed to annoy Nova even further, and she stalked back to the other side of the stage. 

Someone, Peter wasn’t sure who, let out a sharp gasp, and the backdrop came down from the rafters. The room was quickly filled with screaming, everyone rushing to get out of the way as it crashed down onto the stage. Peter grabbed a hold of Mick’s arm and dragged him backwards, the two of them staggering under the weight of each other as they scrambled to get off the stage as fast as possible. 

“It’s him, it’s the phantom of the opera!” Mick gasped, holding onto Peter with a vice like grip. Peter looked up at the catwalk, and for a second he could have sworn he saw someone standing there, but the figure was gone as quickly as they arrived. 

“Is everyone alright?” Alessandra shouted, scrambling out of the pit and onto the stage with a terrified readiness. 

Madame Mercury rushed over from the other side of the stage. “Where’s Cecil? Get that man down here!” 

Cecil Kanagawa was chief of the flies, and whatever the reason behind this accident was he’d know it. He had to know it. Alessandra brushed past Mick and Peter, making sure they were both uninjured before moving on to the next person as Cecil staggered through the ensemble from backstage. 

“For God’s sake Cecil, what’s going on up there?” Madame Mercury barked. 

Cecil swallowed thickly. “Please madame, don’t look at me. God as my witness I was not at my post.” 

A round of whispers started up amongst the cast, the sounds panicked and confused. Mick shot a sharp, scared look at Peter and held on tighter to his arm. He was shaking a little bit, but Peter tried not to think too much of it. Mick had always been easily spooked, and he believed in the story of the phantom of the opera more than anyone else in the theater. That’s all it was was a story, but no matter how many times Peter told him that he wouldn’t listen. 

“Well who is up there?” Vespa asked sharply. 

“There’s no one there, madame,” Cecil said. Peter would have argued otherwise, almost positive that he’d seen someone there, but he didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t want to sound like one of the ghost story fanatics. “Well, if there is, it must be a ghost.” 

“It’s the phantom of the opera!” Mick said again, this time louder, and Vespa shot him a cutting look. She turned back to Buddy and Jet, who were in the process of trying to console a frightened Nova. 

“Senora, these things do happen.” Buddy said softly, taking her hand to help her up. 

Nova sputtered for a moment. “These things do happen?”

“It was just an unfortunate accident.” Jet said.

“You’ve been here for five minutes, what do you know?” Nova scoffed, ripping her hand away from Buddy’s. “See, these things do happen all the time! For the past three years these things keep happening and did anyone here stop them from happening?” 

She whirled around, shooting scathing looks and Alessandra and Madame Mercury, who both looked rather unamused about the accusation. The heat in her eyes was burning, and Peter shuffled uncomfortably under the weight of it even if it wasn’t directed at him. Cecil, for his part, looked like he was either going to be sick or start raving about how exciting the entire ordeal was. It was always rather hard to tell with him. Nobody answered her, so nova continued on her rambling, pointing an accusatory finger at Buddy and Jet. 

“And you two, you’re as bad as them! These things do happen? Well, until you stop these things from happening this thing does not happen!” She mumbled something in spanish that Peter couldn’t understand as she rushed off the stage, everyone watching her go without being sure what they were supposed to do about it. 

“Amatures.” Julian huffed as he looked at the two of them, spinning on his heel and following after Nova seconds later. 

Everyone was silent for a long, long moment once they were gone. Buddy and Jet looked rather shocked, both clearly unsure about what they were supposed to do now. Peter couldn’t blame them. Nova was a handful on her best days, let alone on her worst ones. They were all used to this type of thing by now, but to an outsider he figured it must be a rather shocking first day. 

“Miss Zolotovna will be back, won’t she?” Buddy asked. 

“You think so madame?” Alessandra wandered across the stage, a piece of paper clutched in her hand. Mick squeezed Peter’s arm. “I have a message for you. From the opera from ghost.”

“God in heaven you’re all obsessed!” Vespa snapped. Buddy swatted her lightly on the arm. 

Alessandra gave her a sharp look. “He merely welcomes you to his opera house-”

“His opera house?” Buddy cut her off with a scoff, arching a well manicured eyebrow. Alessandra didn’t respond. 

“Commands that you continue to leave box five open for his use,” She pointed in the direction of box five, Buddy and Jet both following the action. “And reminds you that his salary is due.”

Buddy and Vespa both laughed at that. Jet didn’t, but he did speak up. “Salary?”

“Madame Wire gave him twenty thousand franks a month, but perhaps you can afford more with madame Rita as your patron.” Alessandra said, handing the letter over to Buddy. 

“Who’s the understudy?” Buddy asked, and Madame Mercury laughed sharply. 

“Understudy? There is no understudy madame, the production is new!” She said. 

Buddy groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose and passing the letter over to Jet, who examined it like he was looking for some sort of clue as to what they were supposed to do in the writing. 

“J Steel?” He asked, looking up from the letter and over at Alessandra, who merely shrugged. 

“It’s all we know of him, monsieur.” She said. 

“God, a full house and we’ll have to cancel!” Buddy moaned. Vespa grabbed her hand and stroked her thumb over the back of it affectionately. It was the closest Peter had seen her look to something other than mean. 

“Peter Ransom could sing it ma’am.” Mick said suddenly, dragging Peter forward by his arm. Peter’s eyes widened and he fought against Mick’s hand, but he had always been stronger than he had.

“A ballet boy?” Vespa scoffed. 

Mick straightened up. “He’s been taking lessons from a great teacher.”

“Really?” Buddy asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Whom?”

Peter sputtered for a moment as he tried to find his voice. “I don’t know his name, madame.” 

“Not you too.” Vespa sighed, turning her attention away from Peter and back over to Buddy. 

“Ransom? That’s a curious name. Any relation to the famous violinist?” Jet asked. He sounded genuinely curious, not just indulgent like Buddy and Vespa had. 

A sharp pang hit Peter in the chest at the mention of Mag, but he nodded anyway. “My father.” 

“His only child, monsieur. Orphaned at seven when he came to live and train in the dormitories of the opera house.” Madame Mercury explained, coming to stand behind Peter and rest her hands on his shoulders. She smiled kindly at him when he looked down at her.

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” Jet said, the words sincere in their delivery. 

Peter nodded. “Thank you monsieur.”

“That doesn’t solve our issue, Jet.” Buddy said sharply, looking at him in a way that would have been rude had they not so clearly known each other well. 

“Let him sing for you, madame,” Madame Mercury insisted. “He has been well taught.” 

Buddy closed her eyes and took a deep breath in before opening them again and forcing a smile onto her face. “Alright. Come on, don’t be shy.”

“From the beginning of the aria then.” Alessandra groaned, making her way back down into the pit. 

Mick scooped up the scarf Nova had dropped during her dramatic exit, bringing it over to Peter and shoving it into his hands. He looked at him with wide eyes and he smiled encouragingly, nodding towards the front of the stage. Peter opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, unsure of what to do, and stumbled when Madame Mercury pushed him gently forward. She was having none of his wide eyed fear, tapping her cane against the floor a couple of times to let Alessandra know to start. Peter felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

“This is doing nothing for my nerves.” Vespa said. She wasn’t even trying to be quiet about it. 

Buddy shushed her. “He’s very pretty, we can indulge him.” 

Vespa’s scowl deepened at that and the band started to play. The first few notes would hardly come out of his mouth, his throat feeling like it was closing up completely. “Think of me, think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye.” 

He thought he heard one of the other dancers laugh, and he could feel the heat of everyone’s eyes on him like hundreds of knives stabbing into the back of his head. Alessandra looked rather unimpressed with him, her conducting lazy and annoyed in the way it was done, and it only served to spike Peter’s anxiety more. He’d never been one for stage fright, but this was different. It felt more real, more important, and he couldn’t do it. He made a move to run when Madame Mercury slammed her cane down on the stage, sending him a sharp glare when he met her eye. 

He swallowed thickly. “Remember me every so often, promise me you’ll try.” 

The lyrics came out stronger this time, more confident, and he bit back a smile. Mick was grinning at him when he turned to look at him, and he dared to get a bit louder, a bit bolder. He took a couple of steps forward, wrapping the scarf around him as he sang in the way he’d watched Nova do so many times in rehearsal. Buddy straightened up a bit, and he watched her turn to Jet with a curious look on her face out of the corner of his eye. The other ensemble members were shuffling around him, moving over to listen more carefully, and it only served to boost his confidence more. His voice was full by the time he reached the end of the two bars, and when he turned around to look at Buddy and Jet he had a smile on his face. The two of them looked at each other for a moment, communicating without speaking in that way only old friends could, before Buddy turned back to look at Madame Mercury. 

“How quickly can you pull together a costume in mister Ransom’s size?” She asked, and the room burst into excited noise. 

Mick rushed over to Peter, grabbing his hands in his and grinning at him brightly. Peter couldn’t stop himself from grinning back, squeezing his hands tightly. Some of the other members of the ballet swarmed around him, all of them talking over each other as he and Mick tried to process all of it before Madame Mercury broke them apart to steer him towards back stage, Mick following along behind them. If she minded his decision to tag along she didn’t say anything, keeping her attention on Peter and her hand gently on his shoulder in the motherly way she always seemed to treat him. 

“I knew they’d love you.” She said, smiling proudly at him. 

“Don’t speak too soon, madame. I still have to perform the opera.” Peter said, trying to breathe through the elation and the new wave of nerves that were washing over him. Madame Mercury paused when they reached Nova’s dressing room. The idea of using it was so foreign yet exciting to him that he could have laughed.

“And you’ll do twice as well tonight as you did just now,” She insisted, standing on her toes to reach up and brush some hair away from Peter’s forehead. “Now come, we have to get you ready.” 

She opened the door and ushered him and Mick inside, and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning like a fool when it closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this at the same time as the prologue but I got too excited and it wasn't done yet, so you can have it now a couple days later. I had a really hard time deciding which of the boys would be Christine and which would be the phantom, but I think I've landed on a casting that I'm happy with. I'm super excited for y'all to get to read the rest of it and I hope you are too :)
> 
> A little bit of information for all my fellow Phantom Fans: Rita is Raoul in this scenario, but her and Peter have a completely platonic relationship instead of a romantic one and the role of Madame Giry is being shared between Madame Mercury and Alessandra cause I wanted to keep her as Meg's (In this case Mick's) mother but Alessandra seemed like a better fit for actually knowing stuff about the phantom. Obviously some stuff in this is different from the way it is in the musical, but I do want to stick to the general structure so if you were wondering yes, it does have the same ending. I'm sorry. 
> 
> Comments fuel my will to live so please leave me some


	3. Angel of Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to point out any spelling or grammatical errors that you find so I can fix them

The wave of applause that crashed over the stage was deafening, and Peter’s head swam with the weight of it. His eyes were glassy and his ears were ringing, and for a moment he felt he might faint. It was, quite possibly, the best he had ever felt. Mick and madame Mercury beamed at him from off stage, Alessandra mouthing her congratulations from the pit, and he couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. The moment the curtain was closed he was swarmed by his fellow chorus members, all of them with excited, giddy voices as they gushed over his performance. 

“Peter Ransom, that was unbelievable!” Mick laughed, grabbing his hands in his tightly. 

“Where did you learn to sing like that?” Another chorus member, one Peter, regretfully, didn’t know the name of, asked. 

He was swarmed with questions and praise, and he found it was rather nice. He usually wasn’t one to look for the spotlight or much attention, preferring to keep to the background and out of the way most of the time, but despite that preference he still found himself enjoying being the centre of attention for today. It wasn’t something he would make a habit out of, having always been taught to be humble, but it was a nice indulgence. He felt like he deserved it, at least just this once. The thwack of madame Mercury’s cane on the ground startled all of them out of the bubble they’d found themselves in, and they all turned to look at her as she regarded them with a strong expression. 

“Yes, you did very well. He will be pleased,” Madame Mercury said, giving him a gentle smile before turning her attention back to the rest of the chorus. Her smile fell. “And you, you were a disgrace! Come, we rehearse, now!” 

She led the rest of the chorus by, pausing to squeeze Peter’s chin affectionately as she went, and he watched them go for a moment before turning to head to his dressing room. He only made it a couple steps before he was stopped. 

“Bravo, bravo. I knew you’d be exceptional.” 

Peter smiled, looking at the air around him. There was no source for the voice, there never was, but he liked to imagine that he could see him, one day, if he looked hard enough. It hadn’t happened yet, but he was hopeful. 

“Peter! Peter!” 

“Peter.” He said, his voice ringing out through the room, and Peter smiled at the ceiling.

He moved to take another step towards his dressing room before he was seized by the wrist and pulled around to face a grinning Mick, who had no doubt managed to sneak away from under his mother's watchful eye. There was no doubt, by the look on his face, that he hadn’t heard him. Nobody else ever did, and he had given up asking long ago. 

“Where in the world has that talent been hiding all this time?” Mick asked, grabbing Peter’s hands in his and squeezing them tightly. “I mean really, you were perfect!” 

“Mick.” Peter huffed, a blush rising on his cheeks. 

Mick just continued to grin at him. “It’s true! I only wish I knew your secret. You have to tell me who your new teacher is, Peter!”

Peter stilled for a second, looking around the hallway. There was nobody there, just like there hadn’t been anyone there before, but he could still feel him. He’d know if he told Mick, and yet he wasn’t resisting, wasn’t giving him a reason not to, so Peter grabbed Mick by the hand and all but dragged him to his dressing room. Mick looked rather concerned by this, and to play it off Peter turned around, fiddling with the buttons of the costume dress he’d been given. 

“Give me a hand with the corset while I tell you, alright?” He asked, and Mick’s concern was immediately replaced by a smile as he came up behind him and started working dutifully on the laces. 

“So? Who is it?” Mick asked, jabbing him in the ribs playfully. Peter laughed and swatted him away before taking a deep breath to steady himself before answering. There was a single red rose resting on the vanity that he hadn’t noticed earlier, one that hadn’t been there before the performance, and the sight of it made him smile. 

“My father, before he died, would speak of an angel. An angel of music. He swore to me that once he died, he’d send the angel of music to me, to protect me. I always used to dream he’d appear, and then he did, Mick!” Peter explained. He couldn’t help but smile at the memory of it. 

“The angel of music appeared to you?” He asked, and Peter nodded.

“Any time I was alone in the chapel, to light a candle for my father, or in my head when I was asleep. It’s always just his voice, but still, I know he’s always with me,” Peter said. Mick finished with the laces and helped Peter slip out of his dress. Peter grinned brightly at him when he turned around to face him. “He’s a genius, Mick. An unseen genius.” 

“Do you really believe that it’s the angel of music?” Mick asked, passing Peter his dressing gown as he fiddled with his hair in the mirror.

Peter turned back to him and smiled, wrapping his dressing gown around himself as he sat down. “Who else?”

“I can hear you talking, but it’s like someone else is using your voice. The words aren’t yours.” Mick sighed. He took Peter’s pointe shoes from him when he held them out, placing them to the side as he slipped into a more comfortable pair. 

“What are you talking about?” Peter asked, looking up at him in confusion. 

Mick came to stand behind him, removing pins from his hair in spots he couldn’t reach. “It’s not like you to believe in stories like this. Stories that can’t come true.” 

“You’ll believe in the phantom of the opera but not in an angel of music?” Peter teased, reaching up behind him to pinch Mick’s chin. Mick jumped. 

“My God your hands are cold.” He gasped, moving quickly to the other side of him and cupping his cheek in his hand, looking his face over. 

Peter felt a chill run up his spine, the feeling of eyes on him sharp in the back of his neck. “He’s with me even now. I can feel it.” 

“Your face is pure white, Peter!” Mick said. Peter got out of his chair quickly, grasping onto Mick’s shoulders. 

“He’s here, Mick,” He told him, his voice quiet but firm. “He’s always here. It frightens me.” 

“Don’t be frightened.” Mick said softly, removing Peter’s hands from his shoulders and squeezing them in his. 

They both looked up at the sound of the door opening and Madame Mercury’s cane smacking against the floor. Mick gave her a poor imitation of an innocent smile, to which she looked rather unimpressed. Peter smiled apologetically when she turned her sharp gaze on him. 

“Mick Mercury, are you a dancer?” She asked, her voice cold but not unkind in a way she seemed to have perfected over the years. Mick nodded. “Then go and practice.” 

“Yes ma’am.” He nodded again, shooting another look at Peter before he scurried out of the room. 

Madame Mercury turned to Peter once the door closed behind him, her face softening just a fraction, and closed the distance between the two of them. She cupped his cheek gently in her hand, stroking her thumb over his cheek bone a couple of times before sliding her hand down to his chin, tilting his head up with the edge of her finger. 

“Chin up, dear. You were a spectacle tonight. You should be as proud of yourself as I am.” She said, pinching his cheek gently and smiling at him. 

Peter smiled back at her, and it didn’t leave his face even as she walked out of the room and he retreated back to the vanity. He’d never known his mother, but he liked to think, in some way, that she had been like madame Mercury. She’d always treated him as though he was just another son, and he owed her so much for all the kindness she’d shown him over the years. He supposed there were quite a few people he owed the same debt to. Everyone at the opera house had been incredibly understanding and kind, far more than they truly needed to be, and he didn’t think it was possible to show the gratitude he had for all of them. The picture of Mag that he had stuck to his mirror was a reminder that he needed to try, though, because sometimes he left his expressions of gratitude far too late for them to be worth anything. That was something he had to learn the hard way. 

Buddy and Jet were in the hall outside his dressing room, his voices just barely coming through the door, and he busied himself with removing his makeup instead of trying to figure out what they were saying. He was desperate to know what they thought of his performance, desperate to know if they would cast him again, but he knew it wasn’t something he could worry himself with too much. That was something Mag had always taught him, and it was something he tried to take to heart as frequently as he could. First rule of performing: don’t let others opinions affect you. It was easier said than done in his opinion, but he knew if Mag could do it he could too. 

“Peter Ransom,” Peter practically jumped out of his skin at the sound of the new voice. He hadn’t heard the door open, and as far as he knew there was only one voice that came through his walls, but when he looked up, sure enough, Rita was standing there. He had to bite back a smile. “Where is your red scarf?” 

“Madame?” He asked, turning in his chair to look at her. 

He didn’t want to admit it to anyone, least of all to himself, but part of him was still unsure it actually was Rita. It had been so long since he’d seen her, and the possibility of it being someone else loomed at the back of his mind. Even if it was Rita, that length of time could have driven any number of wedges between them. They weren’t the same people they had been all that time ago, that was an unquestionable fact, and he didn’t know if these new people that they’d become would fit together as seamlessly as they had when they were younger and had grown up forming themselves around one another. Part of him wasn’t even sure Rita remembered him the way he remembered her. 

“You better not have lost it after all the trouble I went to to get it back. I was just fourteen and soaked to the bone!” She said, and with that one comment all of Peter’s fears were swiftly wiped away.

“Because you ran into the sea to rescue my scarf. Rita, it is you!” Peter grinned, his entire face lighting up as he looked at her. 

“Who else would it be?” She asked, walking over to where he was sitting and bending down to wrap him in a tight hug. 

He breathed in deeply, letting his eyes close and his body slump at the feeling of arms so familiar yet also so foreign curled around his shoulders. Somehow, despite all the years and the changes and the distance between them, his brain still remembered what it felt like to lean his head against her shoulder, and it felt exactly the same when he did it again. 

“I worried you’d forgotten me.” He said softly, his words muffled by her shoulder. 

“I couldn’t if I tried.” She squeezed him tighter, and he smiled. 

“I assume this wasn’t what you were expecting when you showed up tonight?” He asked, his tone half joking and half serious. 

Rita pulled away from him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “You’re joking, right? You’ve gotta be joking, cause I don’t think anybody is expecting to show up to an opera and see their best friend singing their heart out on a stage, mistah Ransom. Well, maybe if you knew that that friend was in the opera, but that’s not the point! The point is, I didn’t know you could sing! Not like that, anyway, cause you were always good, but that was a whole other level!” 

“I’ve been taking lessons.” Peter said simply, smiling fondly at Rita’s rambling. She hadn’t changed, as far as he could tell, and her familiar presence was a comforting warmth around him. 

“Well, you sing like an angel,” She said, squeezing his shoulder before straightening up. There was a mischievous smile on her face when she looked at him. “An angel of music.” 

He laughed, turning back to the mirror to start removing his jewelry. “You remember that too?” 

“Little Lotte let his mind wander,” Rita started in lieu of a proper answer, pacing the room a bit and taking it in without moving her eyes from Peter for too long. “Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or of shoes?” 

“Or of riddles, of frocks?” Peter added, looking up and catching Rita’s eye in the mirror as he took out an earring. 

“Those picnics in the attic? Or of chocolates?” She continued, walking around to his other side. 

“Mag playing the violin.” He said, taking out his other earring before turning to watch her as she moved in the mirror. 

“As we read to each other dark stories of the north.” Rita said, her smile and eyes bright. 

“No, what I love best Lotte said,” Peter met her eyes in the mirror as she stepped up behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Even with the years since he’d last seen her she hardly stood taller than him when he was sitting, and the sight was so endearing it made his heart ache. “Is when I’m asleep in my bed-”

She cut him off, finishing his sentence for him. “And the angel of music sings songs in my head.” 

Peter smiled, looking from Rita to the picture of Mag on his mirror. The two had always been rather fond of each other, and he knew Mag would be happy to see him reunited with her after so long. He also knew that, deep down, Rita probably missed Mag as well. He’d been like a second father to her for the duration of their friendship, and when he’d died and Peter had left it had been hard on her. They’d written to one another, tried their best to stay in contact, but things didn’t work out the way they wanted and after a while they lost track of each other. It was strange, for a while, not to have Rita to tell everything to. She’d been his main confidant for years, the person who knew and understood all his stories. There hadn’t been anyone else he’d wanted to tell things to more, at least before Mick, and now that she was back he was bursting with the childish want to tell her everything once again. 

“Mag said,” He started, meeting her eyes in the mirror once again. “When I’m in heaven Pete, I shall send the angel of music to you.” 

“I remember.” Rita said, walking over to his side and crouching down so that they were on eye level. 

“Well, Mag is dead, Rita, and I have been visited by the angel of music.” Peter said. He didn’t know why he was telling Rita this, didn’t know why he still trusted her so completely when it had been so long and he had no idea if she was still worthy of that trust, but he couldn’t stop himself from doing so. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to stop himself. 

She smiled at him. “No doubt of it.”

“I knew you’d understand.” Peter beamed, reaching out to cup her face and brush some hair off of her cheek. 

“Of course I do. And now we go to supper. We need to catch up, it’s been way too long and I have a ton of stores for you!” Rita said excitedly, standing up and looking down at him with bright eyes. 

Peter’s smile fell. “No, Rita. The angel of music is very strict.” 

“Well tell him I won’t keep you out late,” Rita laughed, and his heart sank. She didn’t believe him. He could hear it in her voice. “Now, you have to change cause, no offense, but I ain’t going out with you in your pajamas. I’ll go get my hat!” 

She turned to head towards the door and Peter caught her wrist. Her smile was still there when she turned back to him despite the fact that he was clearly not happy about the situation. “But Rita-”

“No buts. Two minutes, Little Lotte.” She cut him off, shaking his hand off with a smile that seemed incredibly out of place next to the dread that was creeping in. She turned and walked out, leaving Peter alone in the room by himself, and he rushed after her. 

“Rita!” He called, following her out into the hallway, but she didn’t so much as look back at the open door. 

Peter ducked back into the room quickly, closing the door sharply behind him as he leaned against it. It had gotten colder in the mere moments he’d stepped out for. She hadn’t believed him, and he needed her to believe him. He needed somebody to believe him. Things had changed, and he couldn’t be the only person who was aware of how. For his own sake and for that of the people around him. He trusted the angel, truly, he did, but he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was strict. He hated to think what he’d do if Peter were to take a step he didn’t like. The room grew colder around him, and he wrapped his dressing gown tighter around himself as he moved back to the vanity. His heart was pounding as he sank down into the chair, though he didn’t know why. 

“Insolent girl!” 

Peter jumped in his seat at the sound of the voice, turning to look around the room. He wasn’t there, and he knew he wouldn’t be, but that didn’t stop him from looking every time anyway. “Angel.”

“How dare she, basking in your glory like she had any part of it!” He spat, his voice cold. Peter couldn’t see his face, but he knew he was frowning. 

“She was just being kind.” He said, trying to calm him, but he wasn’t having any of it. 

“Ignorant fool this brave young suitor. She has no right to share in this triumph, my triumph.” 

Peter was deterred for a moment by the concept of Rita being a suitor, the idea of it so absurd to him that he could have laughed, but he turned his attention back to the angel quickly. “She meant no harm, angel. Please, don’t be angry.”

“Angry?” He asked, his voice coming out as a slightly bitter laugh. 

“With me,” Peter specified. He didn’t want him to be angry with Rita either, but he knew there was no way around that. “Please. I need you to stay by my side and guide me. My soul was weak and I’m sorry, but please.” 

The angel laughed again, but this time it was much softer. “You flatter me, Peter. I’m not angry with you.”

Peter relaxed slightly. “You aren’t?”

“Quite the opposite, really. You were very good tonight. Very good indeed.” He said. The smile was evident in his voice and Peter lit up at the sound of it.

“Perhaps good enough for you to finally show yourself?” He asked hopefully, and the angel laughed. 

“Yes, I think you’ve earned it. Come, look at your face in the mirror.” He instructed. 

Peter did as he was told without further question, though he didn’t quite understand what he wanted from him. His own reflection stared back at him from the glass, his eyes wide and tired looking. The room was still cold, and he wrapped his dressing gown even tighter around himself. He wanted to ask what the angel wanted, wanted to ask what this was supposed to mean, but before he had the chance he watched as the reflection changed. He didn’t change, but instead the room behind him did. It seemed to happen slowly at first, but between one blink and the next he was no longer the only person reflected back at him. There was another, a man, standing just behind him. He turned, but the room behind him was empty. The man was still present in the mirror when he turned back around. It was the angel, there was no doubt of that in his mind.

He didn’t look the way Peter had been expecting, not really. He supposed he looked too human, though not human enough either. He had dark, scarred skin, though half of it was covered by a white porcelain mask. Peter faltered at that. There was one thought that came to mind, one explanation, but it was one he didn’t want to believe. The stories Cecil told them of the phantom of the opera always said he covered his face with a mask. A mask of porcelain. It was always a detail Peter had found interesting, the thought that the phantom would think to hide a face described to be so awful with something meant to be so beautiful. It had felt wrong, in a way. And now here stood this man, his angel of music, with his face of scars and porcelain. Peter had always thought he’d be scared, should he ever encounter the phantom he wasn’t sure he believed in, but now that he was here he couldn’t help but think that the stories were wrong. There was nothing hideous about him. 

“You’re the opera ghost.” Peter said. It wasn’t a question, not really, but the phantom answered him anyway. 

“I am. Yet I am still your angel of music, am I not?” He asked.

“You are,” Peter said quickly. “You’re my angel of music.”

The phantom smiled, his dark eyes watching him like he was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen, and held out his hand. It was as though the mirror wasn’t even there anymore, his hand passing completely through it to rest in front of him. He was still watching Peter when he looked up from his hand and back at his face. The door of his dressing room rattled, but it sounded more distant to him than it should. He hadn’t locked the door, he was sure of that, so it should have opened easily for whoever was trying to open it should have been able to do it easily, but they were clearly struggling. Peter, for some odd reason, didn’t care. 

“Peter?” Rita called through the door. It had been her trying to open it, then. He still couldn’t find it in him to care. “Peter, open the door!” 

“Come with me.” The phantom said, his eyes holding Peter’s like they would die should he look away. 

The rattling of the door stopped for a moment. “Who’s voice is that?”

Rita’s voice was panicked, and Peter spared a short glance back at the door before turning to the phantom. He looked between his face and his outstretched arm passing through where there should be glass, where Peter’s body was still reflected back at him. He thought it was, at least. He couldn't think straight, feeling the burn of the phantom's eyes as he watched him. He looked up at him again, scanning his face for any indication that he shouldn’t go with him, no matter how badly he wanted to. It felt right, like it was the only thing he could possibly do. There was none, and, god help him, he took his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I love Rita? 
> 
> I kind of combined two songs into one chapter here, but it felt too short to do them separately, so here we have Angel of Music and Little Lotte/The Mirror. I've been jumping between the movie album and the 25th anniversary album for content, so this is turning out to be a mix of both, but I can't say I'm unhappy about it. There's points that I love in both, so I'll be sure to include all of them both for the sake of satisfying myself and also making this longer. I've also recently read the book, so I'm including a couple little bits from that in here too ;)
> 
> Comments fuel my will to live so please leave me some


End file.
